


Connections

by MythicalTzu



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, Canon-Typical Violence, Dreams, Dubious Consent, M/M, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:53:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25388608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MythicalTzu/pseuds/MythicalTzu
Summary: Hannibal is being watched, his dreams are being haunted, and his life is about to change.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Kudos: 26
Collections: Hannigram_Reverse_Bang_2020





	Connections

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Hannigram Reverse Bang 2020. Much thanks to my lovely and talented artist, Skeli. Here is a link to her amazing artwork, which inspired this fic: https://mittensforskeletons.tumblr.com/post/624105101298188288/these-are-the-pieces-i-did-for-the-murder-husbands

“I see you.”

The words are a whisper, barely audible above the cafe’s ambient noise, but they slice a direct path to Hannibal’s ears.

He looks up, frowning, to find a young man staring at him.

That doesn’t happen often. He draws attention, certainly, but most people observe him discretely, taking pains to conceal their interest. Not this man. As their eyes connect, the stranger offers a twitch of his lips that might be the start of a smile. Hannibal’s breath catches as he waits for the man to speak — to introduce himself, perhaps, or offer an explanation — but instead he turns and strolls away.

“That was odd,” he notes to his colleague, who looks at him in confusion.

“What was?”

“Didn’t you hear him?” He nods to indicate the retreating figure, but the man is already gone. Annoyed, he offers Alana a faint shrug. “Never mind. I think he might be a former client.”

“Or perhaps a future one.” 

Her smile is an invitation for banter, but he’s too distracted to respond. 

—

The encounter lasted less than a minute and involved three words, so naturally he forgets about it and moves on with his busy life. That’s what he tells himself, while half-listening to a patient droning about their childhood trauma. He takes notes, but somehow they twist from words into images, and from vague impressions to the outline of a face. A delicately boned face with large, expressive eyes, but the expression he’s trying to capture eludes him. Is it questioning? Accusing? A few more strokes of his pencil and perhaps… 

“Doctor?”

He looks up, blinking, to find his client staring at him. 

“My apologies.” The notebook is snapped shut, perhaps with a touch more force than necessary. “How do you imagine you will feel once your mother has acknowledged her transgressions against you?”

He listens, nodding and reflecting while mentally sketching the tiny lines that appeared around those striking eyes. There was something there, something in that pattern. If only he could have gotten a slightly better look. 

He’s still pondering lines and meanings as he leaves the office for his car. He has his keys out, ready to depart, when a nearby movement catches his eye.

It’s him.

It’s the same curly dark hair, same layers of casual clothing, same worn boots, but he’s walking away too quickly. He can’t see his face. Hannibal opens his mouth to say something -- but what? Stop? Come back? None of the words are right, so he stands and watches in silence as the man vanishes from his sight for a second time. Frustrated, he trails behind for a bit, even knowing he’s too far back for any sort of pursuit that doesn’t involve running.

One more step and he would have missed it, but he happens to look down just in time to spot a gleaming object. He stops abruptly and lifts it between his forefinger and thumb. Light reflects off sharp metal twisted with beads, feathers, and tiny glinting fragments. He studies it, transfixed, until a vehicle rounding the corner brings him back to the present with a blast of their horn. For once, he doesn’t bother with a glance at the license plate but simply returns to his car, cradling the treasure within his hands as one might carry a fragile creature.

—

At night, he dreams.

He’s standing in his kitchen, meticulously cleaning a pair of kidneys while hot oil shimmers in a pan.

“So you took both. Greedy, don’t you think?”

He doesn’t look up from the cold running water as he drags his thumbs through dark tissue. “You think leaving one would have been a mercy?” He ponders his own question while transferring the meat onto a chopping block. “It wouldn’t have done him much good, considering his condition.”

“The only condition I’m considering is yours.” The man leans against the counter, eyes on Hannibal’s face. He could glean so much information if only he could look up, but the meat demands his full attention.

“My condition should be of no--,” he begins, but before he can finish the sentence, dark threads emerge from the kidneys and slowly tangle themselves about his fingers. “My condition is… this is all…”

“Not mercy, then. Quarter?”

A cleaver severs his work, just missing his hands, and dark blood pools beneath his fingertips.

He jolts awake, soaking in sweat, heart pounding.

—

The next week passes in a muted blur. He sees patients, attends events, shares lunches with Alana, and prepares ingredients for meals he’ll cook in the future. He’s fully engaged with none of it. Instead he finds himself constantly scanning for wavy dark hair or a pair of scuffed boots. When days pass without another encounter, he’s torn between relief and disappointment. 

Just when he’s accepted he’ll never see the stranger again, he opens the door to his waiting room and finds him sitting on the couch, looking as comfortable he as might in his own living room.

It takes Hannibal a few seconds to recover.

“You aren’t my patient,” he says, fighting to keep his voice even. “This is a private waiting area. I’ll thank you for leaving.”

“Would you now.” A half-smile twists to its full form, and the effect isn’t exactly genial. “Liar.”

Hannibal begins to object, but there’s no winning play in argument. Instead he looms above the man and waits, trusting his presence will have the desired effect.

Maybe it does and maybe it doesn’t. After a few beats, the man pushes himself to his feet and fishes a box from one of his over-sized jacket pockets.

“Here,” he says with surprising gentleness, passing the object into Hannibal’s grasp.

“Another gift?”

His smile quirks up and then vanishes completely. “I’m generous.”

“Many would consider that a positive character trait—” Hannibal begins in his best psychiatrist tone, but the man turns and exits the room before he can finish a single sentence. 

—

He waits until he’s home before unwrapping the package. The butcher paper is secured with a few strategically placed pieces of tape, and he can’t help but admire the utility and precision. Inside is a beautifully crafted Santoku knife. He lifts the handle and finds it as balanced as he somehow knew it would be. When he draws the blade across his thumb, he’s rewarded with beads of bright blood. 

—

He’s standing in his kitchen, hands covered in blood, a dark tangle of threads holding them stationary. 

“What are you going to do?”

A gleaming blade rests beside the kidneys, which pulse with blood in time with his heartbeat.

“I don’t know what will happen.” Hannibal wants to look at his face, but his eyes can’t leave the knife.

“Only one way to find out.” 

His tone is lightly mocking and fully maddening. With extraordinary effort, Hannibal snakes his fingers around the hilt and makes a jab at the twisted coils that are now crawling up his wrists.

“Careful now.” The man’s voice drops to a whisper. “If it works, it’s because you’re a surgeon, not a butcher.”

Uneasy, Hannibal looks down at the meat. The blood is gone. There’s only the threads now, fully entwining his hands and arching towards Will in a shadowy dance. He can feel the tugging and pulling down to his veins and nerves, but somehow it doesn’t hurt. In fact he can barely feel them. They’re just…

—

“…cold,” he murmurs, gathering the blankets more tightly around himself. “So cold.” It’s dark in his room, and he’s still tired, but his teeth are chattering and his extremities ache. He forces himself out of bed, for once regretting the hardwood floors as he limps to the thermostat.

Seventy-two degrees.

His teeth continue to chatter as he wraps himself in a bathrobe and brews a pot of coffee. It isn’t until he’s taken a hot shower and dressed in several layers that the chill abates and the dream-images fade.

—

He has a new patient on his schedule, a man seeking help with pervasive PTSD symptoms. He’s tempted to cancel, perhaps refer him elsewhere to lighten his caseload, but he finds himself unable to decide. At four, the chiming bell startles him from spiraling thoughts and meandering daydreams.

He steps into the waiting room with his professional smile in place, only to feel it drop away when he sees who “Brian Anders” is. 

“At the very least,” he says after a pause, “you could do me the courtesy of providing your true name.”

“I suppose I could.” The man remains seated, expression amused. “But you misunderstand. The name wasn’t a discourtesy.” 

“No?” Hannibal feels his brows arching in spite of his efforts to keep his face expressionless. 

“No.” With a sudden smile, his visitor rises to his feet. “I wanted to introduce myself in person. Face to face, as all important things should be done.” He extends a hand. “I’m William Graham. You can call me Will.”

Hannibal stares down at the hand, hesitating perhaps a bit too long before giving it a firm shake. He shivers slightly at the contact and although Will’s hand is warm and dry, a memory of coldness echoes through his veins. “Hannibal Lecter,” he returns, although obviously that isn’t new information. “What can I do for you, Will? I’m assuming that you aren’t here seeking help for your past trauma.”

“Not today,” he admits. “I’m here to ask you for a date.”

“A date?”

“A date. You and me, the two of us somewhere alone, maybe sharing a meal, perhaps a drink, could be some candles involved or—”

“I’m aware of the concept,” Hannibal cuts in. “But… why?”

“Because we have things to talk about. Wouldn’t you agree?” Will doesn’t wait for a reply. Instead, he fishes a business card from his front pocket and passes it over. That maddening, knowing half-smile returns. “Give me a call when you decide to accept.”

Then he’s gone, just as before, the door closing behind him before Hannibal can fight his thoughts into words fit to be uttered.

—

First, he studies the card. It divulges precious little information: William J Graham, Instructor of Forensic Science, FBI Academy, Quantico VA. A 703-area phone number. He flips it over to find a scrawled address in Wolf Trap, along with a time and date.

“Presumptuous,” Hannibal murmurs, pocketing the card.

Of course he won’t be there. The only question was whether or not to call and give his regrets.

That would be the courteous thing to do, but even as he lifts the phone, it doesn’t seem right. Midway through dialing, he disconnects and replaces the receiver. 

After cooking a simple meal and poking the results around on his plate, he takes a seat at his desk to write Will a brief letter of regret. He selects a thick, creamy piece of stationary and his favorite quill pen, which he uses to inscribe “Mister Graham” with a flourish. It will be a simple matter to drop a letter at Quantico. Or even to drive it to Wolf Trap; the country is lovely this time of the year.

Instead he finds himself exchanging the quill for a pencil and sketching a line-drawing of Will’s face. He no longer has to guess at the particulars or invent the details. An hour later, he’s recreated a near perfect likeness and the results take his breath away. The face he’s crafted is exquisite, with large expressive eyes as the central feature. He stares at his creation, fixating on those eyes. They’re telling him something, even from paper. He just can’t quite figure out what it is. Maybe if he sits and stares for a while longer.

—

They’re standing in a forest as dusk steadily closes in. A figure lays in the leaves between them, heavy and still.

“Go ahead,” Will says, crouching down on his haunches. “You can use it now.”

Hannibal transfer the blade back and forth between his hands, frowning. “Tell me first.”

“Tell you what?”

“About the knife, and what happens.”

Will sighs, impatient. “It depends, I suppose. On your purpose.” He looks away from the figure to fix his eyes on Hannibal’s face. “Have you made up your mind?”

“Of course I have,” Hannibal says, but as he finishes speaking he’s filled with an odd sensation. It feels something like doubt, but that can’t be right. He knows exactly what to do, and exactly what Will is waiting for. Bracing himself against the chilled earth, he readies himself for the first incision but before the blade connects, a hand closes around his wrist.

He jolts awake in his chair with a startled cry, one hand gripping the pencil so tightly it snaps.

—

He decides against leaving the letter at Quantico. He doubts a mere instructor would have a personal assistant, and a general office person might not care enough to deliver his message quickly enough. There’s no time for the postal service, so that leaves him driving to Wolf Trap. It’s not an entirely unpleasant prospect, but his mind wanders to the journey home, letter delivered, miles forming between himself and whatever mysteries he’s abandoning.

Or maybe there are no mysteries. Perhaps this entire ordeal exists only in his mind.

Two more days pass, and suddenly he’s confronting the deadline but no closer to making a decision. He decides to do what often works best for him, leaving the final call to impulse and instinct. He showers throughly, dresses carefully, and departs his house with his letter of regret in one hand and a bottle of wine from his private collection in the other. As he makes the drive to Wolf Trap, his mind is pleasantly blank.

The autumn colors are magnificent, and the remote location feels open and welcoming. Soon he’s the only car on the narrow road and when Will’s house comes into view, he pulls over and cuts the ignition. It’s not the bare-boned shack he’d envisioned, but a well-maintained, cozy little home nestled amid a clutch of trees. After a few moments of contemplation, his hand finds the wine bottle and he walks the rest of the way, enjoying the crunch of twigs and leaves beneath his feet. 

“Welcome,” Will says, opening the door with a genial expression that belies just a hint of strain. “You’re exactly on time. Did you have any trouble finding your way?”

“Some,” Hannibal admits, handing over the wine with his most practiced smile. “I hope red is acceptable.”

Will lifts the bottle to give it a closer inspection. “I don’t drink wine often,” he says, “but I’ve been told a good red pairs with almost anything. Is that so?”

Hannibal removes his gloves and tucks them into his pockets. “Shh,” he says, shrugging out of his overcoat. “You’ll give away the secret and a great many cocktail party arguments will be ruined.”

“Good thing for all involved that no one invites me to cocktail parties.” Will takes his coat and turns to hang it inside a closet that houses two jackets, a flannel, and a pair of boots. “Can I fix you a drink? I have bourbon. And water. And ice.”

“An excellent combination,” Hannibal says, following Will through a slightly cluttered living room and into his kitchen. He lingers on the far side of the counter while Will splashes unmeasured amounts into mismatched tumblers. 

“To our first evening,” Will offers, and without thinking Hannibal clinks their glasses together.

“Our first? Do you believe this will become a regular occurrence?”

“Can’t imagine why it wouldn’t.” Will takes a gulp of amber liquid before nearly meeting Hannibal’s gaze. “You’re here, aren’t you? You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want to be.”

Hannibal takes a fortifying second swallow. “I’m not entirely certain why I’m here.”

“Because I offered a you a date, and you accepted.”

He doesn’t have an argument. In fact, words fail him utterly as Will turns and begins working on the meal he’d started preparing before Hannibal’s arrival. He’s no chef, but he seems to have the basics down, stirring and chopping and checking something in the oven while Hannibal stands uselessly by. 

“You can set the table if you wish,” Will says at last, looking up from his efforts to nod at a small table piled with napkins, utensils, and wine glasses.

Relieved to have something to do with his hands, Hannibal arranges each place setting, gaze lingering over the glassware. “Is there another bottle you’d prefer to open instead?”

“What?” Will pauses dressing the salad to give him a quizzical look. “No, the only wine I have is an ancient bottle of cooking sherry, and I doubt that pairs well with anything. The corkscrew’s in the end drawer,” he nods towards it, “…I think.”

Hannibal finds it shoved towards the back, buried behind can openers, twine, various tools, and a scattering of bottle caps. He also locates a book of matches, which he uses to light the tapered candle set in the center of Will’s table.

“Perfect,” Will murmurs, but his eyes remain focused on the stove and Hannibal can’t tell if he’s being praised or it’s commentary on his own efforts. A moment later he retrieves a pair of plates and serves the food, not bothering with garnishes or finishing touches. 

Hannibal studies his meal with great interest. There’s a nicely seared chop, a lightly dressed green salad, a mound of cheesy grits and a chunk of rustic-looking bread.

“It all looks wonderful,” he says, waiting until Will is seated before pouring the wine. “Pork?”

“Hopefully it’s not too lean,” Will says, giving it a light jab with his fork. “Or if it is, hopefully the pan sauce will compensate.”

Hannibal takes a bite, nodding appreciatively as he chews and swallows. “Perfectly done,” he says, lifting his wine glass but not drinking yet. Instead he watches Will, the way he cuts his meat, the way he turns the fork within his fingers, the deliberate manner his lips close around each bite. He’s flooded by an overwhelming sense of deja-vu, so strong it causes his fingertips to tingle and his head to grow fuzzy.

“…cooking for one.”

“What?” Hannibal gives a hard blink and fights to re-orient himself.

Will gives a faintly quizzical look. “I was saying, I don’t often cook. It’s not worth the trouble when you’re cooking for one person, but I can manage a few basic dishes.”

Normally Hannibal would argue the idea that cooking for one’s self isn’t worthy of effort, but nothing about this situation is normal. He samples a few more small bites — the salad is crisp, the grits skillfully prepared — before resting his fork against his plate and moving past pleasantries. “How long have you been watching me?”

Will blinks. “Watching you?”

“Observing me. Researching me. Whatever else you’ve been doing. How long has it been?”

Will stares back with eyes that give away nothing. “I saw you for the first time in that coffee shop. I followed you back to your office after you left. I’ve seen you twice more since. Or was it three?” A tiny smile ghosts across his lips. “And now you’re here, so I’d say things are working out nicely.”

“Working out?” Hannibal hopes he doesn’t sound as lost as he feels. “Working towards what?”

“A relationship, of course.” Will gives a little bark of laughter. “Isn’t that what most people hope dates will lead to? And pardon me if I’m too forward, but you don’t strike me as the casual type.” He gives a nod that seems to encompass Hannibal’s suit, carefully combed hair, and perhaps his entire being. 

Amazed, Hannibal leans slightly forward, attempting to force eye contact that’s thus far been fleeting and elusive. “You said that you see me.”

“I did. And I do.”

“What do you see?”

Will takes a few moments to finish his salad and drink a bit more wine. “The cracks in your ensemble.” He gestures towards Hannibal with his fork. “But don’t worry, it’s good. I bet it fools almost everyone.”

Hannibal sits in silence while he processes. “But not you.”

“No.” Will leans forward, just a centimeter or two. “Not me.” After another slight pause, he continues. “Would you like me to adjust it?”

In spite of his best effort to remain expressionless, Hannibal is certain his face betrays him. “How would you do that?”

Will shrugs, a minute gesture that nonetheless seems to ripple the air around them. “A little knick. A tiny tug. I suppose I’d have to experiment.” He pauses, smiling to himself with the most genuine smile Hannibal has seen so far. “Would you be a willing subject?”

He opens his mouth to provide a glib retort, but the lightheaded, finger-tingling feeling from earlier comes rushing back. He grips the table as a flood of images and impressions fill his mind: kidneys sizzling in a pan, a cleaver slamming into a table, a pool of blood seeping beneath his fingers, and twisting through everything are coils of darkness which are cold, cold cold…

“Are you okay?”

Hannibal realizes his eyes have closed, and opens them again with more effort than it should cost him. Will is looking directly at him, his expression soft with concern. 

He intends to assert that he’s just fine, of course, but although his lips can form shapes, he can’t seem to match them with sounds. Will’s face goes out of focus again, dark threads forming in the space between them and clouding the edges of his vision.

“Hannibal?”

A warm hand rests against his wrist, and the contact brings him jolting back to reality. Blinking hard, he meets Will’s eyes. “I dream about you,” he says, unable to thwart the wondering tone in his voice.

“Are they good dreams?” 

“I suppose it depends on how one defines good,” he answers, dropping his gaze to where Will’s hand rests on his arm. There’s a slight pause before Will draws back, and his skin prickles at the loss.

“I dream about you, too,” Will replies, returning to his meal. “But I never remember much about them except for how they make me feel.”

Hannibal arches a brow. “Unsettled?”

Will gazes directly at him. “Connected.”

His stomach executes a few flips. When a long, slow breath fails to steady his nerves, he nudges his plate away. 

“I’m sorry to end our evening abruptly, but I must be going.”

He expects resistance, or an argument, but Will simply nods as if this were expected. “Let me get your coat,” he says, leading the way. Hannibal’s belongings are retrieved and handed over with a faint smile that suggests a private joke, but not one that Hannibal is privy to. “I’ll walk you out.”

Hannibal starts to object, but can’t formulate a polite refusal. He regrets having parked a foolishly long way from the house, but Will makes no comment as they stroll down the dirt road in the dark. When they reach his car, he braces himself for a requested kiss, but Will merely links his hands behind his back and gazes at him, dark eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

Goodnight, he means to say, but when he opens his mouth his tongue refuses to obey. “Will we see each other again?”

Will gives him a faint smile. “Definitely. In our dreams, if nowhere else.” He leans closer, close enough for a kiss, but instead reaches behind Hannibal to open the car door.

“Be safe,” he says softly, and Hannibal finds he’s never felt less so.

—

“Not like that,” Will hisses, his hand clamped tightly around Hannibal’s forearm. “You have to be careful.”

“I’m always,” Hannibal begins, but he’s distracted by twisted, twining threads that slither between the body and the two of them. The closer he looks, the more impossible the puzzle seems. Any small incision will sever at least one strand, and even moving the knife closer makes them twitch and pulse. He pulls back, studying the situation with as much concentration as he can muster, but Will makes it difficult by inching closer, shadowing the meager light.

“You can’t cut the flesh,” he whispers, the words so close to his ear that they seem to bloom inside his head. “But that’s okay. It doesn’t matter. Can’t you see that?”

“See what?” Hannibal turns to face him, frustrated. “You said I should use the knife.”

“Yes.”

“You gave it to me!”

“ _Yes_.”

He steps back, heart pounding in his throat. “Use it _how_?”

Will moves closer, eyes imploring. 

After a short hesitation, Hannibal passes him the knife, hilt first — but Will’s hand instantly drops away, his face flooded with disappointment.

“You don’t see.”

There’s a rustling nearby, and their joint attention turns to the dark woods behind them. It’s coming, Hannibal’s mind screams. It’s coming, hurry hurry hurry —

He wakes soaked in sweat, panting, eyes burning.

—

He returns to work.

It isn’t exactly a refuge, but it’s something to occupy his mind and fill time that’s gone stale and empty. When he isn’t trying to focus on his clients, he’s busy sketching minutely detailed images of Will — his face, his body, his living room, even the food that he served on their date. No detail feels too small to go undocumented or unexamined.

The healthy part of his mind warns that he’s graduating from interested to obsessed, but the rest of his psyche refuses to engage in any sort of introspection on the subject. It will pass, he tells himself while capturing the way tree branches frame Will’s house from a hundred paces.

Days pass without messages or sightings. At first it makes sense. Hannibal walked away from Will’s direct offer, and he’s responding to the rejection by playing hard to get. Rather disappointing in its predictability, really. He can’t help but feel a touch let down. 

But then days stretch into a week and a week lengths towards the middle of the month. Hannibal grows increasingly agitated, smug certainty giving way to confusion. Worse, his nightmares continue, each more disjointed and nonsensical than the last. 

Dream-Will has also stopped speaking to him.

As the second week folds into a third, he decides that Will’s actions — or lack thereof — are sincere after all. Hannibal rejected his proposition and he’s respecting Hannibal’s choice. Rather admirable, really, considering all the build up to their evening together. He has no way of knowing that Hannibal hadn’t intended to end things entirely, and he’ll never know unless Hannibal communicates with him.

It takes him a few hours to craft an apology of sorts, a quasi-explanation lined into an invitation of his own. He decides to mail it to Quantico rather than Wolf Trap. He likes the parallel — Will’s dinner invitation had been delivered at his office, and Hannibal enjoys returning favors whenever possible, especially when they involve a hint of poetry.

While waiting for a reply, he locates a small hand-carved box that’s a perfect fit for the lure and card Will gave him. He hesitates over the knife, thinking that perhaps it should join the set in his kitchen. But ultimately, he decides to keep it with the rest of Will’s gifts. The box is rubbed with oil and placed on the shelf above his fireplace.

He waits.

He does his best to be patient, but it’s been nearly a month and with each passing day their separation strains him further. He sleeps poorly, waking often from half-remembered nightmares. He begins skipping meals, because nothing tastes as it should and it’s all so much bother. As January merges into February, he starts canceling appointments, and then begins sending patients away entirely. They no longer interest him, and he can no longer pretend otherwise.

When the knock on his door finally comes, he’s so relieved he practically trips over his feet in his rush to answer. After taking the briefest moment to compose himself, he opens it with a smile—

Only to find Alana standing in his doorway, her lovely face filled with concern.

“Hannibal?” Her eyes widen with what looks like alarm before her professional expression snaps into place. “Can I come in?”

“Of course,” he offers with the best imitation of his normal voice he can manage. “Can I get you something? A glass of beer, tea…?”

“Just water would be fine.” Her voice is modulated carefully, each word chosen with deliberation. “Do you have a few minutes to chat?”

“For you, always.” He escorts her to the kitchen, where he fills a chilled tumbler with two ice cubes and filtered water. “Lemon?”

“No thanks, this is perfect.” After taking a sip and setting it aside, she turns her gaze back to his face. “I hear you’ve been sick. I’ve been worried. In all the years that I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you sick.” She pauses. “Until now.”

He can’t keep himself from frowning. “I’m not sick. I appreciate your concern, but I’m afraid you’ve been troubled by rumors. I’m perfectly fine.”

“You don’t look perfectly fine.”

“No?” There’s an edge to his voice, but if Alana notices, she ignores it.

“No. You’re pale. You have dark shadows beneath your eyes. And you’ve lost weight.” Her gaze sweeps up and down his body with the detached assessment of a physician, and what she sees seems to deepen her concern. “If you aren’t sick, then what is it? This isn’t like you. Referring out your clients, spending weeks holed up here, alone…?”

He fights back irritation. “I decided I needed a break.”

“A break.”

“Yes. Breaks are reasonable and healthy things to take, are they not?”

“They are.” She studies his face for another moment. “But it’s not healthy to suddenly abandon your life. In fact, some people might consider that concerning.” She tries for a small, companionable smile. “People like me, for instance. We might worry that there’s something more to it, especially after being reassured that you’re not ill.”

He takes ones of her hands and presses her fingers to his brow. “I don’t have a fever. Or any other physical symptoms.”

Her hand lingers against his skin for a half beat longer than necessary. “No fever,” she agrees, drawing away. “Hannibal. I hate to ask, but as a friend and your colleague…” Her words interrupted by a swallow, and her voice drops an octave. “Are you taking any pharmaceuticals?”

He pulls himself up to his full height, frowning. “No. Of course not.”

She holds up both hands as if to fend off an attack. “I’d be remiss both as a professional and as a friend if I didn’t ask.”

“Of course,” he agrees, softening his tone. “But the answer remains the same. No. I’m just…” He doesn’t want to talk about it, because he doesn’t understand it well enough to describe what’s happening, but a small part of him wonders if forcing the situation into words will somehow make clearer. “…I’ve met someone.”

Alana can’t keep the surprise off her face. “That’s what this is?” A small smile starts to form. “You’re in love?”

He narrows his eyes at her. “Of course not. I barely know him.”

The smile drops. “Tell me,” she says gently, taking a seat on one of the barstools. “I won’t judge.”

He gives her an edited summary of the events since that first day in the coffee shop, leaving out the nightmares and obsessive drawing and the virtual shrine he created for Will’s gifts. Even so, the story doesn’t appear to reassure her in the slightest. 

“I don’t know,” she says after taking a few moments to reflect. “I don’t have a good feeling about this. I don’t think this is a healthy situation for you.”

Hannibal frowns. “I disagree. Perhaps it’s not conventional, but I believe he and I share a meaningful connection.”

She swirls her glass, clicking the ice cube together as she watches him thoughtfully. “If it’s healthy, then why do you seem so miserable?”

He shrugs. “Forging connections is painful.”

“It shouldn’t be,” she says softly. “That’s how you know when something is right — it feels right. It makes you feel good. It uplifts you, energizes you, it expands the possibilities.” She pauses. “What would you say if a client came to you with a similar story?”

He can’t help but grimace. “I would suggest that he’s over-invested and projecting his desires onto a stranger.”

Alana gives a singular nod. “And your advice?”

“Would be to slow down and reassess what’s in front of him.”

She looks pleased.

He returns her smile with a genuine one of his own as his mind barbs around the sudden insight. 

“Thank you,” he tells her sincerely. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to take some time to reflect on that.”

—

As soon as she’s gone, he returns to his fireplace and takes the box in both hands. He opens it slowly, reverently, before lifting the lure with great care. It seems impossible that he’s never really studied it, never mentally unwound the various components. Feathers, wires, stones, teeth. He nudges each with the tip of his forefinger, studying a tiny, sharp incisor with his full attention. It’s been secured into place with silver wire, fine and delicate enough for use by a artisan jewelry maker. 

His skin catches against the jagged end of the wire, drawing a line of blood that he allows to drip into Will’s creation. 

It belongs there. 

Moving in a daze, he places the lure in his passenger seat and begins the drive to Wolf Trap. This time, there’s no bottle of wine, no letter of regret, and no expectation of an intimate evening. There’s also no doubt about his intentions, should he get another chance.

He parks directly in front of Will’s house, but he doesn’t bother approaching the door. Will isn’t inside. Instead, he allows instinct to guide him down a winding path through the brush until he hears the crackle-roar of a stream. He takes a turn, walking further until a feeling of correctness settles over him. He then steps through the bushes, around a line of tress and makes his way across stones.

Will is leaning against a large rock, his line cast, patiently waiting as if he has all the time in the world. Hannibal watches him for a few moments, fascinated by the detached serenity on his face. It makes him seem barely human, let alone approachable. 

“Aren’t you cold?”

Will addresses him without moving his gaze from the water.

“Freezing,” Hannibal confirms, forcing himself into action and moving closer. “I should have worn a coat.” When Will doesn’t respond, he continues. “Can you catch fish this late in the season?”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “What makes you think I’m trying to catch them?”

Hannibal closes the distance between them and comes to a stop a few feet away. “Good point,” he allows. 

“How did you find me?” Will sounds vaguely curious, but not enough to draw his eyes away from the surface of the water.

“I didn’t.” He dangles the lure between them and risks a faint smile. “You pulled me to you.”

“I suspect you over estimate my skills,” Will replies, glancing over and nearly returning his smile. “But it’s a nice lure, isn’t it. I was pleased by it. I thought you’d appreciate it.”

“I do.”

Will reels in his line and crouches down to pack his fishing gear away. 

“You don’t have to end your session on my account.”

“I should just let you stand there and freeze?” This time, there’s genuine amusement in Will’s tone. 

“I’m willing to wait,” Hannibal replies. “But I appreciate you being a gracious host.”

His tackle box readied, Will turns to fully look at him for the first time. “You can’t possibly have thought that appropriate attire for fishing in November,” he says, unwinding his scarf and pushing it into Hannibal’s hands.

“I’m fine,” he protests, but Will cuts him off with a look.

“Keep that up and I swear I’ll put this hat on you, too.”

Hannibal eyes Will’s worn knit cap and decides it’s best not to chance it. “Fine then,” he says, wrapping the scarf around his neck. “Shall we head back?”

Will arches a brow. “I’m afraid you’re about to be disappointed. I haven’t cooked, and we won’t be alone.”

“Oh?” That’s a surprise, but Alana was correct when she described Will as a stranger. “Do you have children?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Pets, you mean.”

“Dogs.”

“I’m fine with dogs,” Hannibal says, trying to decide if he is or not.

“Six of them.”

“I see.” They fall into step together as he tries to imagine living surrounded by a sea of furry canines; it’s impossible, so best to change the subject. “Why did you vanish from my life?”

Will casts him a sidelong look. “I didn’t.”

“Why did you stop visiting, then?”

Will navigates up the tricky part of the path, holding branches out of the way and nodding his head to indicate a thinly-beaten trail. “I decided to let you take some time to consider things. You clearly weren’t ready to plunge right in, and there’s no need for me to rush. I want you to be comfortable.”

Hannibal listens, frowning. “I don’t even know what I’m considering.”

Will leads them to his front porch, where he sets his fishing gear aside and opens the door, allowing a furry explosion to spill forth in an avalanche of licks, nuzzles, and wagging tails. Each dog is given a brief greeting before they’re sent off into the field and Hannibal has his attention again. “Of course you do,” he continues. “You just haven’t decided if it’s what you what.” He cocks his head slightly, eyes assessing. “Or have you?”

Hannibal turns to watch the dogs chasing each other, digging in the dirt, and snuffling at the ground. “Sometimes I suspect what interests you is the game.”

Will leans forward against the railing, watching with him and smiling. “Of course I enjoy the game. We both do. It’s another way that we’re the same.”

“But you don’t know me.”

Will turns to face him, smile fading. “Not entirely. Not yet. But as I said before. I see you.” He watches for Hannibal’s reaction, seems pleased by what he finds, then heads down to join his pets. He tosses a few sticks and playfully wrestles the larger beasts while Hannibal takes a seat and watches, fascinated.

Once the dogs have expended their energy, Will rounds them up and guides them back inside. Hannibal can’t help but be impressed by how well-trained they are and how responsive they are to minimal commands. “No food, you said?”

“Nothing that’s worthy of serving a guest,” Will replies with a touch of regret. “Honestly, all my fridge right now contains dog food and some questionable leftovers.”

“Would your dogs survive a night without you?” He’s asked the question before considering the ramifications, but it’s too late now. “I have plenty of food at my house. And wine.” He pauses. “And a guest room, if you’d feel more comfortable…”

“You’re considering my comfort now?” Will grins. “I’ll take that as a positive sign. And sure, why not? Help me feed them, and we can be on our way.”

—

They don’t talk much on the drive back to the city. Hannibal plays music and makes the occasional comment, and Will makes appropriate-sounding noises in response. It isn’t until Hannibal parks that Will seems to re-engage, looking at him with focused attention and asking, “Any surprises waiting for me inside?”

“Nothing to the tune of six dogs,” Hannibal replies lightly. “Speaking of which… where were they, the night I had dinner at your house?”

“I asked a co-worker to take them for the evening. I figured things were complicated enough without introducing you to them on night one.”

Hannibal nods as he unlocks the front door and ushers Will inside. “Welcome to my home,” he says formally. “If there’s anything you need, or anything I can do to make you more comfortable, please let me know.”

He expects the usual reaction of someone stepping inside his foyer for the first time, but if Will is impressed or intimidated he gives no indication. “Thanks,” he says, shedding his coat and handing it over. “I’d love a drink. Whiskey with water is fine.”

“I think I can do a little better than that,” Hannibal replies, moving to the kitchen to prove his words true. Ten minutes later he presents two Boulevardiers, each adorned with a perfectly curling twist of orange. 

“This is amazing,” Will says, holding his glass up to the light to better appreciate the deep red color. “I think I’ve dreamed about us sharing this drink before. Although…” He pauses to take a sip, and comes away shaking his head. “No, that’s much better.”

“You skipped a step,” Hannibal childes him gently, holding up his glass. “To our second date. May it end far better than the first.”

Laughing, Will clinks their glasses and times his next swallow to align with Hannibal’s. “This is really excellent,” he states sincerely. “Is there anything I can do to help with dinner? It doesn’t have to be anything complicated. I’m used to eating simple things.”

“I’m not.” Hannibal has a few more sips before setting his glass aside. “But tonight, I’ll indulge you. Pasta, my hand-made pesto, fresh mozzarella, salad, and bread.” When Will nods his approval, Hannibal continues. “Take a seat and keep me company while I prepare. You can tell me about your job while I do so, if you like. How did you get interested in forensics?”

He listens to Will’s story while he prepares their meal, doing his best not to get too distracted by the details. It’s harder to focus than he anticipated — even while only half-listening, he finds himself staring at Will, studying his eyes, curious about the faint scars on his skin. He winds up with a meal that’s even less remarkable than his description of it sounded, but Will doesn’t appear to mind. As soon as he’s served he begins eating with appreciation, pausing only to drink and praise the wine Hannibal selected as their accompaniment. 

“I’ve been talking a very long time, and it’s all pretty boring,” Will says at last, setting down his fork. “What about you? Do you enjoy your work as a psychiatrist?”

He has pat answers down for this sort of question, but Hannibal finds himself struggling to deliver any of them. “It can be interesting,” he finds himself saying at last. “Although the longer I work in the field, the more predictable I find people.”

“Oh?” Will smiles around his wine glass as he takes a swallow. “What about me? Have you found me predictable?”

“Not at all,” Hannibal replies, settling down his knife and fork. “I can’t seem to predict you at all. In fact, I’ve given up.”

“Good. I suspect that’s the best approach.” He pushes his plate away and polishes off his wine. “What time is it?”

Hannibal checks, and is surprised to find that it’s almost eleven. “That’s strange,” he says, his voice sounding distant. “I would have sworn it was hours earlier.”

Will leans closer, interest sparking in his gaze. “Has that been happening a lot lately, doctor? Losing track of time?” When Hannibal hesitates to answer, he continues. “Because it has for me, too. Sometimes I’ll find myself caught up in daydreams and then suddenly it’s evening already. Or I’ll be drowsing in bed, thinking about getting up, and somehow three hours have slid past.”

“Hmmm.” Hannibal takes their plates to the sink, selecting his movements carefully because he’s no longer entirely steady. “Shall I show you to the guest room?”

Will barks out a quick laugh. “No, I’ll sleep with you, if you don’t mind. But don’t worry.” He holds up a hand, smiling. “I won’t do anything ungentlemanly. You can trust me to be on my best behavior.”

He wants to make a light joke about not wanting Will’s restraint or his good behavior, but the words get lodged somewhere in his throat. Instead he finds himself just nodding while fighting off unexpected waves of sleepiness. “I’m sorry,” he manages, barely covering a yawn. “I’m not being a very good host, it’s still early, and…”

“Let’s go.” Will’s voice is soft but somehow commanding, cutting straight through Hannibal’s exhausted confusion. 

—

After providing Will with a pair of pajamas and a toothbrush, he insists that Will use the bathroom to get ready first. He uses the time alone to sit on the edge of his bed, trying to focus and control his thoughts. Half-remembered dream images invade the corners of his mind, threatening to overtake his consciousness and pull him down, down, down towards… what? 

“Where is this heading?” he asks himself, but he must have said it out loud because Will is standing over him, looking down into his face.

“There’s no way to know,” he says. “Like you said earlier. You can’t make predictions, so why keep trying? Let go, and let what happens, happen.”

He wants to argue, but his head is already on his pillow and his limbs are so heavy. He needs to change, to shower, to brush his teeth, but even the act of lifting his head seems impossible. 

“Don’t fight it,” Will murmurs, turning off the lamp and crawling onto the mattress beside him. “I think we’re beyond that point anyhow, don’t you?”

He might argue if he could, but with the lights extinguished he’s overwhelmed by exhaustion. Darkness pulls him under.

And it’s still coming.

He looks around for a place to hide, or a direction to flee, but there’s only darkness, the body, the knife, and Will.

The urge to run overtakes his impulse to fight and he’s turning to sprint away heading into the pitch dark surroundings when Will’s hand encloses his wrist.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “It’s just the mongoose. That’s what you’ve been hoping for, isn’t it?” He smiles, revealing teeth shiny with blood.

“I’m not sure you’re right. I think there’s something more. Something…” And the world goes silent save for the ringing rush in his ears and the blood-lust that fills his vision. Three quick strokes, the first to the jugular, and all of this ends, everything goes back to how it should be.

Will’s hand grips his wrist tightly enough to make him gasp with pain.

“You’d regret that.” 

Hannibal looks down, confused, to find the knife glinting in his clenched fist. 

“I wasn’t going to—”

“You were.”

“I didn’t want to—”

Will laughs. “Yes, you do. You’ve gotten mixed up, but that’s mostly my fault. I should have realized what you would think.”

“ _What_?” His question is an angry demand but Will doesn’t flinch. Instead he moves closer, because the twisting coils are back, twining around them in jagged patterns, drawing them together, knotting and hooking as their bodies are forced into tighter and tighter configurations.

And then he can’t breathe.

There’s no space to expand his lungs.

No air.

Only Will, and Will is no longer calm. His eyes fill with panic and his mouth works wordlessly, but Hannibal knows he’s begging for help and they are running out of time. 

So he angles the knife, and thrusts.

—

He wakes soaked in sweat, his heart hammering and blood pounding at his temples. Worse, the coils are still locking him into place. He begins to thrash in panic, only to realize that it’s not the coils but Will’s limbs, and one of his legs is pinned down because Will is riding against it. His erection slips in and out of his boxers as it glides against Hannibal’s sweat-slicked skin.

“Will,” he whispers, but the only response is a low groan. He’s still asleep, or maybe caught up in the same sort of half-dream half-trance nightmare world that’s subverted so many of his own nights. Hannibal drops his head against the pillow and circles his arms around Will’s form, pulling him close as he grinds and pants and whimpers. 

He slips a hand down to free Will’s cock from the clothing, and earns himself a long, grateful moan as the thrusts escalate into a steady rhythm. Hannibal’s heart pounds in his ears, his skin flushing as he taps into Will’s frenetic energy. It makes perfect sense that Will’s desire is presenting like this, he tells himself. He needs this, and it isn’t as if Hannibal isn’t enjoying every stroke, every shudder, every desperate noise. 

What makes no sense at all is that when he closes his eyes to more fully appreciate it, he’s instantly unconscious again.

—

The blade nicks through the threads, which seize up, shudder, and loosen. They both gasp for air, choking and coughing as the coils arch towards them again and again. 

Will leans in close, his head resting against Hannibal’s shoulder this time. “Tell me this is what you want,” he manages. “It only works if you’re in full agreement.”

—

“It’s what I want,” Hannibal assures him, pulling Will tight as he thrusts wildly against him. “See?” Fumbling for Will’s hand, he places it against his own erection and groans as trembling fingers close around it. He’s close within seconds, his body already primed with desire. “I want this. I want you.”

—

Hannibal slashes at the dark threads again, this time making direct contact through the spiraling shadow-threads. They twist and arc further away, spurting out wave after wave of dark blood that soaks their skin—

—

“Yes, yes, yes,” Will grunts as he rides Hannibal’s leg with feverish abandon. His entire body goes still and a cry erupts from the base of his throat as he comes, spurting again and again across Hannibal’s body. Hannibal follows seconds later, his vision blanking out and his entire being going silent-still.

\--

The coils drop from their bodies like severed veins, collapsing at their feet where they disintegrate into ash. Will looks up at him with his dark smile, eyes gleaming. “Here it comes,” he says, as thudding hoof-beats close in on them. “I think we’re ready now.”

He turns to watch as the darkness resolves into a massive beast, all hooves and horns and feathers and sharp, glinting teeth. It rears back and snarls, its eyes narrow, nostrils tightened into slits. When it rears again as if to charge, Hannibal lifts his hand. The knife clatters to the ground and the beast pauses, then settles back as it regards him with depth-less eyes.

—

Fully awake now, Hannibal holds Will tightly to his chest, gasping breaths intermingled with long, slow kisses.

“I see now,” he whispers, and finally, he does.

He sees nothing but Will, and that’s fine. In fact, it’s exactly right.

Will gazes back, his eyes reflective, his smile dark as shadow.


End file.
